There Are No Pockets In A Shroud
Money makes the world go round,
I wonder who said that,
It must have been a billionaire,
A grass roots spoiled brat.
They take their lead from politicians,
Do as I say Not as I do,
They write how to fiddle editions,
As more funds they must accrue.
The rich are really all the same,
Whether they act or if they sing,
They'll always preach to you and me,
Money isn't everything.
Don't you find it really strange,
It's actually quite funny,
That the very people who make this claim,
Have all got loads of money.
Now I'm not being flippant,
Nor am I being abrupt,
But cash along with power,
Really does corrupt.
They love their yachts and fancy cars,
But you must always be aware,
Though it's you and I who make them rich,
For us they just don't care.
As they live their lives of splendour,
They ignore the plight of others,
To sharing they'll never surrender,
Their self delusion and arrogance smothers.
These greedy people the world over,
Are so obsessed with amassing wealth,
As they strive to make their trillions,
They tend to ignore their health.
Before they know it's time to go,
They shout out, we need more time,
We've got loads of lovely dosh to spend,
To take us now would be a crime.
When they arrive at Heavens gate,
They all put on a frown,
No debit cards or hard fast cash,
Just a plain white gown.
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poem by Bri Mar
Added by Poetry Lover
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